Locks
by ApproximatelyPrecise
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes steals a lock picking kit. All the locked doors in his house are hard to resist, but will he like what he finds behind them? T to be safe.
1. Prologue

Hi all! I was honestly stunned by the reception my previous story got on the site. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and faved! Anyway, this story is not a one-shot, and the actual plot starts on the next chapter. Again, please review (even if you hate it) as I'm trying to improve.

Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

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><p><strong><span>Prologue<span>**

Ironically, Sherlock Holmes had to pick a lock to steal his first lock picking kit. Twelve-year-old Jeremy Prewett, a boy in his class, had shown up at school that day with a brand new lock picking kit in a small, black leather case brought to him by an uncle who bought it in the States. Jeremy boasted about it all day, and although he had no idea how to use it, he made sure to tell anyone who wouldn't run away fast enough that in the right hands it could pick hundreds of lock types.

Sherlock was fascinated. Nobody else wanted to hear Jeremy's bragging, but Sherlock had listened to Jeremy's lectures secretly from his desk all day. From the moment the Holmes boy saw it, he kept his eyes riveted on the other boy's case like an owl watching its prey. The past month had been horribly dull, and it had been a whole two weeks since he had stolen anything. He could use a challenge, and Jeremy's kit could certainly prove to be one. The fact that he had no idea how to use a lock picking kit was exceedingly irrelevant.

'Now,' the boy thought, touching the tips of his fingers to his lips and refocusing his icy gaze on the leather case, 'I will wait for my chance.' And a chance did come. After four hours of non-stop rambling, the teacher told Jeremy to get rid of his kit and stop talking about it, so the other boy rose from his seat and left to place it in his locker, three hallways away from class.

'Bingo.'

With the kit completely unattended and only a small metal door separating him from it, Sherlock was plotting like he had never plotted before. He wanted that kit, and he had the one hour and twenty minutes left before break to get the kit. Five minutes later, Sherlock had a complete plan formulated. He told the teacher that he felt really bad and asked to be excused.

He walked slowly out of the room, but once he was out of the teacher's eyeshot he sprinted down the hall. If there was anything he had learnt from all the criminology books he had borrowed from Mycroft, is that the first thing you need is an alibi. For that he went to the boys' toilet, pinched his cheeks a few times to make them red, and then washed his face to appear sweaty. He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. The result was disappointing. He hardly looked sick at all, but then again, he knew it would not be enough when he first made his plans.

The nurse in their school, Mrs Keating, was a surprisingly observant woman. She would never believe he was unwell unless he looked really sick. The infirmary was a short way away from the toilets, and as he walked there, breathing deeply and trying to appear ill, he looked at his watch and saw that he had one hour and ten minutes left until break time. He stopped at the closest drink machine and took out 1.50 pounds out of his pocket. He used the money to buy himself a 500ml water bottle and he hid it inside his jacket, pinning it in place with one arm. To an outside observer, it looked like a boy clutching his stomach in pain. To Sherlock, it was just an extremely awkward pose to be in. Unfortunately, he saw no alternative.

"Mrs Keating?" He asked as he entered the cramped infirmary and walked to the nurse's office, trying to look as miserable as he possibly could.

"Yes, Mr Holmes?" The nurse did not know all the students by name, but there was not a staff member in the school who did not know Sherlock.

"I feel really sick, can I go home please?" Sherlock swallowed deeply and closed his eyes, making a fantastic impression of someone very nauseous. It was easy. When the boy was younger he decided to learn how to imitate every emotion he could think of, just because it seemed useful. For years he would secretly manipulate the classroom environment just to observe his classmates' expressions. He learnt his perfect nausea face when he was ten and sneaked a dead squirrel into his classroom, leaving it on one of the desks during break time.

"Why don't you lie down for a bit, dear? Perhaps you'll feel better soon," Mrs Keating smiled. The woman reminded Sherlock of his brother a little bit; observant and sharp minded, but hiding it behind a congenial smile and mild manners. This woman was too used to students faking illnesses to allow them to just go home.

"Ok," Sherlock said, lying down in one of the hard beds in the infirmary. His heart was beating out of his chest, and he felt the nurse's eyes boring into his back. She was probably watching him like a hawk. One false move and the whole plan will fail. Sherlock took a deep breath. He shifted in his bed a few times, just to look uncomfortable. Every time he did this he had to make sure that the bottle was still held firmly between his arm and his stomach. Then, after counting four minutes and thirty nine seconds, he got up from his bed and ran to the toilet in the nurse's room, slamming the door behind him and locking it. Nobody would consider this strange. Sherlock Holmes was a very private boy. The next step was tricky. Sherlock cracked open the bottle under his jacket to reduce any noise the plastic might make. Then he took a deep breath, stuffed his finger down his throat to make a convincing retching noise, and then spilled some of the water into the toilet. He repeated this process until the water was gone, then threw the empty bottle out of the window. His throat felt as if he'd scratched it with sandpaper.

'Note to self,' he told himself while flushing the toilet, 'find a way to fake vomiting without sticking a finger down your throat. It's not fun.' He spotted a can of air freshener nearby and used it profusely and as close to the door as possible, to make sure that the nurse heard the sound. Then he gargled some water, splashed some on his face, and unlocked the door. He emerged from the bathroom, shaking and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"How are you feeling?" Mrs Keating asked worriedly. One look at her assured him that his plan had worked.

"Slightly better," Sherlock whimpered (he learnt this face from a classmate who **somehow** got laxatives in his lunch about a year ago).

"Do you want me to call your parents, dear?"

"They're at work… Can I take the tube home? I just want to rest."

"Okay sweetheart," The nurse took a Styrofoam cup from one of the cupboards, filled it with water and handed it to Sherlock, "Drink this slowly while I talk to them." The nurse entered her office to make the call and Sherlock sipped at his water. It was strange, faking illness and lethargy while he was the complete opposite. His heart was beating wildly and his mind was buzzing with thoughts and plans. He had not had this much fun in a very, very long time. He glanced at his watch. Forty two minutes left. Three minutes later the nurse returned and said that his mother had been notified, and that she gave permission for him to return home by himself. Sherlock thanked her quietly, got up and left the room, supposedly to collect his things from class. Instead he drained his cup in one gulp (throwing all the water away before had made him strangely thirsty) and ran to Jeremy Prewett's locker. He pressed the cup to the door and his ear to the cup and, while listening carefully, slowly tuned the dial. It took a few turns to hear the faint _click_ of the lock, and then he had to repeat the process, alternating between clockwise and counter-clockwise every time he heard the _click_. Finally, forty-six tries and twenty minutes of work later, the door of the locker was open. With a self-satisfied grin, Sherlock reached inside and stuffed the small leather case into his inner pocket. Then he closed the door again, wiped the dial with his jacket (he didn't suppose anyone would check for fingerprints, but one never knows), and walked back to class. He told his teacher that he was sick and he was going home, took his bag and his notebook from his desk, and strode out of the school. Then he laughed. He laughed all the way on the tube and all the way from the tube to his house. He laughed from the adrenaline and his success. He, twelve year old Sherlock Holmes, had committed the perfect crime. He could not possibly have been more pleased with himself.

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><p>I hope you liked that. Please review. Like I said in my last story, if I have any grammar mistakes <strong>please<strong> correct me, because English is not my first language and I want to improve it! I will post the next chapter in a couple of days (it's already written). And again: If you liked it, please review, if you hated it, please review as well! (I love getting reviews, can you tell?)

By the way, I made the final edit on this at 4am, so I really hope I didn't miss any typos...


	2. Chapter 2

Hey everyone!

Here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2<span>**

The thing about lock picking kits is that after working out the world's most intricate plan to steal them, you have to use them for **something**. Sherlock spent his afternoon at home alone practicing on his bedroom lock. He had nothing but intuition, logic, and a faded memory of a professional lock-picker he saw on TV to guide him, but after many failures, quite a few successes, and an hour, the boy had pretty much gotten the hang of it.

Then it got boring.

Sherlock already had a key to his own room, so picking his own lock was not really a meaningful challenge. He wanted a real lock to pick, but the only other locked door in the house was the door to Mycroft's room, and if his brother caught him picking his lock he would be very displeased…

'Then again,' Sherlock thought, 'Mycroft is at Oxford right now, and I'll make sure to leave everything untouched…' Also, Mycroft's door had an automatic lock, so he could just close the door after succeeding and Mycroft would never ever know. Sherlock picked up his kit and walked across the hall to his brother's room.

Mycroft's locked door took about five minutes to pick, and when it swung open Sherlock went inside carefully. He did not intend to go into the room originally, but after all the effort he reckoned he might as well look around. He could not remember ever being inside his brother's room before. Lining the cream coloured walls inside were three large bookcases, all filled with large books. At the corner of the room there was a large bed and a writing desk. At a different corner there was a TV set on a small stand. The room was immaculate. There was not a single crease in the bed sheets, and the books on the shelves were arranged alphabetically. The desk was clear, with the exception of a single box of post-it notes, and even that was perfectly aligned at a 90 degree angle to the corner of the desk. For a second, a very juvenile part of Sherlock really wanted to jump on his brother's bed and completely mess it up, or rearrange his bookshelf, but he immediately dismissed the idea as absolutely bloody retarded. Then he noticed that one of the drawers on the TV stand had a lock on it. A light tug on the handle told him it was locked.

The boy cracked a mischievous smile. He collected his kit from where it lay by Mycroft's door.

'You really shouldn't do that.' Sherlock was surprised that he thought this. Until this point his conscience had not interfered at all. Where had it been when he masterminded the theft or broke into his brother's room in the first place?

'Why not? Mycroft will never know. He's an hour's train ride away, working on his World Domination B.A.'

'But if the drawer is locked it's probably something he doesn't want you to see.'

'This whole **room** is locked, and there's nothing here.'

'He would never go through **your** stuff.'

'Yes, because he can deduce the content of all of **my** drawers just by looking at the angle of my tie or the shape of my fingernails! That's not fair! What if he's hiding something really interesting?'

'Like what?' The smile on Sherlock's face grew. Conscience-Shnonsense, he was breaking into this drawer. This time it took longer. Locks on drawers are usually simpler than door locks, but difference in size and structure made it a lot harder for Sherlock to pick it, especially since he really had no idea what he was doing. Ten minutes later, though, the lock turned with a faint _click_. Sherlock opened the drawer and immediately understood why it was locked. The small drawer was filled to the brim with books that were quite definitely diaries. Sherlock took them out carefully and laid them out on the floor, inspecting them closely. Each diary was labelled with a year, the earliest one being 1979, when Mycroft was just six. Sherlock carefully opened it, all moral scruples forgotten. His curiosity was burning him. This was a chance to learn about one of the only people that Sherlock truly did not understand at all. Mycroft's handwriting at six was above average in size, and slightly shaky. It was also very dark. The boy seemed to be trying to carve the page with his pencil. The page Sherlock was on was headlined _May 26__th_, and Sherlock read some of it.

_I hate school. I think it is ridiculous that I am forced to learn about things that I already know. Also, I hate playing dumb to get my teachers to like me. Should I care so much if they like me? Father told me about getting ahead in the world and I think that if people like me it might be easier. I really hope I'm right. _

_I have to stop here. John Plank closed my locker on my hand today. He just doesn't like me very much because I embody the things that his parents wanted him to be (I can tell). So I can't really write. One day I'll be Prime Minister and people like John Plank will be put in prison because I will change the age of adulthood. Why shouldn't 7-year-olds go to prison?_

Sherlock smiled. He knew that Mycroft was always acting to get what he wanted, but apparently he started very, very young. Next, Sherlock decided to skip forwards a few years and opened the one from 1975 on a random page. The handwriting had greatly improved in the past six years. Cursive and elegant, Sherlock suspected that Mycroft had practiced a lot to achieve it.

_Jun 6__th_

_Sometimes I wish Sherlock was normal. I realize this sounds horrible, but I can assure you that I only wish it for practical reasons. It doesn't matter to me that he doesn't communicate, or that he's difficult to manage, or all the things my parents say when they think I'm not listening, but it does matter to me that he endangers himself out of curiosity. Mummy always laughs about the time I was five and touched an open flame to see if pain levels plateau (they do, in a logarithmic pattern, though I didn't know that at the time), but that is __nothing__ compared to what the boy gets up to. I'm particularly frustrated about this today because Sherlock decided to try cutting down a tree in the garden to see if he could predict where it would fall. He couldn't. I had to save him and it fell on my leg and it __really bloody hurts__**.**__ I have a broken tibia. I'll write more when my pain medication kicks in. _

Sherlock was fascinated. He moved all the journals to Mycroft's desk, Turned back to the beginning of the 1975 journal and started reading it in order, completely transfixed to the faded yellow pages. He learnt that at his age, Mycroft seemed to be not so different from him. He was sharp and observant, and regarded other people with disdain if they weren't. The difference was that Mycroft did not show people how stupid they were. He was always affable, always polite, and never boastful or attention-seeking. He was also more empathetic than Sherlock, but not by very much. Sherlock also noticed that there was often conflict between Mycroft's raging ambitiousness and his desire to appear demure and unassuming:

_Final examinations for the Eton scholarship were today. I found myself wishing more than ever that we could just afford the bloody tuition fees, and I wouldn't have to drag myself through these scholarship exams. The tests themselves were easy, obviously. The real challenge was trying to seem bright, but not brilliant; knowing what questions to answer and how to be good enough to get the scholarship, but not too good and creep people out. I almost let slip that I knew about my examiner's love affair. I wish people would hide their secrets better and I wouldn't have to filter my words all the time. Anyway it went fine and I could tell that they liked me. I'll get the results in a few days, so that's one thing to look forward to. Well, that and the exams for the Harrow bursary next week (and three more schools after that… This is so tiresome)._

Sherlock then turned to the ones from age thirteen and up. Sherlock hardly saw his brother when these were written. Mycroft (obviously) received all the scholarships he applied for, and enrolled in the posh public school of his choosing the next year, so Sherlock only saw him during Christmas and the summer. Years 13-14 were mostly about school, and not very interesting. At fifteen Mycroft had formed a plan to correct what was wrong with his life:

_February 11__th_

_I want to control the world. I wish I could, and I hope that one day I will. I don't need the fame, fortune and glory, because those only get you killed (as proven by almost every great leader in history), but I want to be able to change the things that I want to change. And no, I'm not just writing this because the rugby team threw me in the giant rubbish bin in the back of the school today at lunch, although I admit that might be a contributing factor._

_I know things about them. I know that Riley and Nelson are secretly gay, and Jackson is claustrophobic, and Perkins has a knee problem that even he's not aware of and I could easily break his knee with a kick to the right spot, but __there is nothing I can do with this information and it's frustrating__. I could spread it around as revenge, but I want to be successful and that means I can't be vindictive, and I can't let other people see me as too much of a threat. Just like I have to dumb myself down for the teachers and do all the chores for mummy. I need people to have good opinions of me if I want to take over the world one day. I really hope this will all be worth it when I do._

Sherlock read on, and two months later, Mycroft wrote (in a very quick scrawl that was quite unlike him):

_Perkins got hit in the knee with a rugby ball and now it's completely broken. I try and fail not to be obscenely happy. I'd like to see him kick me with only one functional leg._

It was getting late, but Sherlock could not stop reading. The Mycroft he knew was always aloof and calm, and Sherlock was never aware of this new side of him that these diaries revealed. It was hidden quite well behind the witty writing and the mild manners, but almost every entry contained a sentence or two that suggested a completely different type of Mycroft, one who had a very dark sense of humour and an almost evil disposition. Even at the age of six Mycroft wanted desperately to get back at the people who gave him trouble. He was happy when they got hurt. He wanted to control the world and make them bend to his will. Perhaps acting all the time and keeping all his opinions to himself was doing something bad to his brother's emotional state; something that nobody was aware of because it was locked in a drawer that was locked in his room.

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><p>That's it. Please review! Reviews don't make me write, but they certainly help =]<p>

I think this story gets better next chapter, by the way (if you think it's going a bit slowly now).


	3. Chapter 3

Hey all! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I think that in the end it will have 5-7 chapters.

Do I have to mention that Sherlock isn't mine in every chapter? Either way, Sherlock isn't mine, or I wouldn't be writing fanfiction!

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 3<span>**

Sherlock suddenly noticed that all the diaries from age 16 and up had a lock on them. He did not have to consider the dilemma for five seconds. The diaries he **could** open were fascinating, what would he find in the ones he couldn't?

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Sherlock found himself saying out loud. He learnt this phrase from Mycroft, who would regularly use it when trying to annoy his brother. Sherlock hated idioms, figurative language and metaphors, because, from a logical standpoint, they made no sense. Mycroft on the other hand, loved them because they made him feel superior. The lock on 1990 was tiny, but not very complicated, so Sherlock managed to crack it in a couple of minutes. The tone of the writing had changed. If the fifteen-year-old Mycroft was sarcastic, the Sixteen-year-old one was bitter.

_March 15__th_

_I saw Dave Riley getting beaten up behind the school today. His rugby teammates found out he was gay. I actually feel a little bad for him. Of all the bullies, he was always the least terrible, and I guess it's not his fault that he's gay. What's the most infuriating about this whole thing is that up until yesterday they were his friends. These rugby goons mean nothing to each other at all. _

_Nelson beat him the hardest, which makes me hate the human race. That damn hypocrite does not deserve to live. Sometimes I honestly wonder if taking over these insects is worth my time…._

Suddenly, Sherlock saw his own name and immediately jumped to that section:

_March 16__th_

_Mummy called today and she told me that Sherlock got kicked out of school. I asked her what a nine-year-old has to do to get expelled from school and she told me that he poisoned the class gerbil. I told her to put him on the line:_

"_Hello, Sherlock." Silence._

"_Why did you kill the class gerbil?"_

"_I didn't mean to."_

"_What did you do?"_

"_I put aspartame in its water supply." Seizures, excruciating pain, death. Poor gerbil._

"_What did you think would happen?"_

"_I thought it would die."_

"_Then you did mean to kill it."_

"_No. I wanted to see the effects of the aspartame." I rolled my eyes, hopefully not too audibly._

"_Is everything ok, Sherlock?" I asked. Evil experiments usually mean that something's going on. For twenty seconds there was silence, and then Sherlock asked:_

"_Mycroft, how do you survive?"_

"_What?"_

"_At school. It's so boring, and I hate everyone and they hate me back and I'm losing my mind. I __had__ to test the aspartame on the gerbil. I __had__to." I could hear his voice shaking._

"_I'm sorry Sherlock," I said, "You just have to pull through. Find something that keeps your mind busy without killing any rodents, because people don't take kindly to things like that."_

"_Why can't you help?"_

"_I just can't." Because I'm stuck in a boarding school a million miles away and I have my own problems; How to avoid being thrown into bins and how to survive the excruciating boredom myself, to name but a few._

"_I hate you." Then he hung up on me. I know he was telling the truth. Sherlock now truly, honestly hates me. I'm actually alarmed by how much I care about this. Why does it matter to me what a nine year old, self-centred brat thinks of me? _

_I guess that when I come to think about it, Sherlock is the only person who's even the tiniest bit like me. I have no problem calculating what other people feel or how they will react to things, but Sherlock's the only person whom I truly __understand__. That's also why I cannot blame him for hating me. If there was anyone in the world who could help __me__ survive the boredom but wouldn't I would hate them too._

Sherlock didn't even remember this conversation. He remembered the gerbil incident very well. He remembered the way the small animal convulsed before it died, and he remembered the horror on the teacher's face when she saw Sherlock's fascination with the dying rodent. He was expelled the same day. He hasn't been expelled since, but only because he has managed to keep himself busy with small plots, thefts and deductions, not to mention fights with the other students. Is this when his animosity towards Mycroft started? Sherlock knew that when he was about seven, Mycroft was the only person he would speak to. He also knew that sometime along the line he became more and more resentful towards his brother, but he could not remember why until now.

_March 23__th_

_Dave Riley sat next to me at lunch today. He's not in the rugby team anymore. He came to say sorry for everything he did to me before, and I told him that I knew it was mostly the others. He told me that he used to be bullied all the time before he got into the rugby team, and that when he finally made it into the popular crowd he would do anything to stay in it, and that he knew it was stupid and that he was really, really sorry._

_I told him it was fine, and then I found myself telling him about how angry I was at the rest of the team for turning on him like that, and about all my small observations. I have no idea why I told him all that. I never tell people anything, but he looked like he should be told. For some reason, he laughed really hard when I told him that Nelson was also gay. He said it was the most ironic thing he had ever heard. Then he told me that I was brilliant for deducing everything and amazing for knowing all this and still not seeking revenge after everything that they had done to me. I told him that if __he__ wanted to seek revenge, I would not stop him. He left the table and returned ten minutes later, informing me that he had locked Jackson in a dark cupboard. He grinned at me, and I found myself grinning back like an idiot. I hate Jackson with a passion, and a part of me wishes I was there to see him panic. Dave has a chipped tooth from when the rugby idiots beat him up. It makes his grin look a little maniacal. _

_Looks like I finally found someone to talk to. Apparently, Dave has a brain. I don't even dumb myself down but he still keeps up. Why would someone so witty and sharp ever want to become a rugby player?_

"_Because my dad was worried that I might be gay, so I joined the team to prove him wrong," He said when I asked. I told him that this was the most ironic thing __**I**__ had ever heard and he laughed._

"_Have you told him yet?" I asked._

"_No." He answered._

Sherlock found himself wondering why even at the time, Mycroft never mentioned this Dave Riley. Did they only speak once? Skipping forwards, it certainly seemed not to be the case.

_May 4__th_

_Dave asked me today if I want to take over the world. _

"_Why would you think something like that?" I asked, trying to appear as calm as I possibly could while secretly panicking._

"_It's this face you make. Whenever you see something you don't like, you get this preoccupied expression..."_

"_I'm allowed to be preoccupied."_

"_It looks like you're __plotting__."_

"_Does it?"_

"_Not to everyone. Just to me." I sighed._

"_Yes, I do want to take over the world. Tell no one or I'll fail." It is a sign of how well he knows me that he did not think I was being sarcastic._

_He asked me why. I told him I that I like being in charge, and that the world was horrible and I wanted to change it. He smiled at me and said that I was ridiculous. I'd never been called ridiculous before._

"_Why am I ridiculous?" I asked._

"_You're so clever. You're brilliant, really, but you haven't completely lost hope in the human race. After being thrown into bins your whole life and having to deal with incompetent idiots all the time… I mean, you know how badly the world sucks but you still think you can change it for the better. Your optimism is ridiculous. Amazing, but ridiculous."_

"_It's not hope or optimism, it's just common sense. The world is run by morons, and it's terrible. If someone with a brain ruled it, it might be less terrible," Not my most brilliant comeback, but then again, I was still a little shocked by being called 'ridiculous'._

"_Well, I don't want to take over the world because I think that it doesn't matter how clever the ruler is, the human race is doomed. So yeah, like I said: You're a ridiculous optimist who is also delusional."_

"_I'm taking that as a complement."_

"_You should," He smiled and I knew my secret was safe._

_How can he hear that I want to take over the world and call it 'optimism'? How does he manage to take the things I try to hide and turn them into positive qualities?_

_May 13__th_

_I'm not gay. I'm really, honestly, seriously, veritably, not gay._

_And who, exactly, do I think I'm kidding?_

_Dammit, life was so much simpler when it was just about world domination._

Sherlock stared at the page, wide eyed. Sherlock's parents were nice enough people, but his father was very, very strict and old fashioned, and if he found out about this… This was probably why the diary was locked. It might even by why the drawer was locked, and why the room was locked. This was why he had never heard of Dave Riley before. The next entry had the worst handwriting Sherlock had seen in Mycroft's journals since he was six.

_May 17__th_

_i told Dave. he kissed me._

_wll writ more when brain starts wroking again._

Sherlock was going to read more, but suddenly, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the doorframe. The sound made him jump, and he turned quickly to the source of the noise, only to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, a bag slung loosely over one shoulder and his eyes very wide. Sherlock, like a deer in the headlights, had absolutely nothing to say.

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><p>Did you like it? I hope you did. Can I just ask you to <strong>please please please <strong>review? You don't know how happy it makes me. I will definitely continue the story even if I get 0 reviews, but I'm just asking as a favour (I mean, seriously, you don't even have to have an account!)


	4. Chapter 4

Finally! I had to rewrite whole pages of this chapter about 5 times to get it at least somewhat right! I hope you enjoy it =D

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 4<span>**

Sherlock had never seen his brother speechless before. It was an interesting experience. It was also a very short one.

"What in the world are you doing?" The older boy asked, his eyes wide and his tone blank. His face was a pale sort of grey. Sherlock closed the journal and placed it on the desk. Why was Mycroft here? He was supposed to be at Oxford!

"Why are you home?" Sherlock asked warily, because he could tell that Mycroft's question had been a rhetorical one and did not know what else to say.

"Why am I… Why am I home? **Why are you in my room****?**" Sherlock had never heard Mycroft shout before. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, Mycroft had grabbed him by the collar of his school uniform and pinned him against the wall.

"Why are you in here?" He hissed. His eyes were on fire. Sherlock had never seen anything quite as terrifying in his life.

"I tested a lock picking kit," He found himself mumbling before he could think of a clever lie, or at least a more tactful version of the truth.

"Three times? On my door, and my drawer, and on the number one most unambiguously private object in my whole bloody room?" Sherlock did not answer. Mycroft pushed him harder against the wall, his fist crushing Sherlock's sternum.

"OW!" Sherlock cried. Mycroft was much stronger than he looked. "Mycroft, I-"

"Tell **no one**, do you understand?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Mycroft did not look like he **could** kill; he looked like he actually wanted to. "Sherlock, look at me and answer the question!"

"I- I would never," Sherlock muttered quickly, meeting Mycroft's eyes for a fraction of a second and looking away again. He could feel his heart beating wildly, he felt like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a wolf. "I would never say anything."

"I genuinely thank you from the bottom of my heart," Mycroft's tone was so icy that Sherlock could swear that the temperature in the room dropped. The young adult then threw him against the wall, walked to his door and locked it with a key that he pulled from his pocket.

"Er… What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, slightly wary.

"I want to talk to you. I can't have you running out," To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft then threw himself onto his bed backwards and pressed his palms to his eyes. Sherlock could see him taking a few deep breaths.

"Are you even sorry?" He finally asked. He still sounded angry, but not even half as furious as before. Sherlock noticed that his voice was shaking slightly.

"Yes," Sherlock said, staring at his shoes, and he meant it. The boy did not often feel remorse, but one look at the state his brother was in showed him that he had crossed every line there was to cross.

"You're shaking," He then remarked. This was all wrong. Mycroft was supposed to be condescending and suave. He was supposed to be furious, screaming at him with his eyes on fire. He was not supposed to be shaking.

"Well, I have just been outed by an amateur lock picking kit. Allow me a moment to compose myself," The effect of his light tone was somewhat ruined by the noticeable tremor in his voice. Both boys were silent. Thirty seconds later, Mycroft sat up, untied his tie and leaned against the wall with his knees against his chest. Sherlock had not seen his normally dignified brother in such a casual pose in a very long time. It seemed like he was actively forcing himself to be calm.

"Hand me the kit," He said quietly, and Sherlock complied. Mycroft looked at it for a second, "You stole it today…" Mycroft's tone was steady and calm, and his eyes were completely devoid of emotion, "and you taught yourself how to use it, that's very clever. You use too much force, though. You're supposed to open the lock gently and elegantly, not prise it open like a chimpanzee," the final words were uttered very sharply and with a little disgust. It was as if Mycroft was saying 'If you're going to force your way into my room, at least do it with style'. Sherlock looked at him questioningly. He had no idea how Mycroft figured everything out. Sherlock himself could usually make simple deductions about classmates and such, but Mycroft was much better at it than he was. Sherlock wondered what kind of evidence he left on the picks. Mycroft noticed Sherlock's confusion and cracked a tiny smile.

"You use too much force, and this kit is cheap. Notice that you scratched the coating off some of the areas of the pick, here," Mycroft pointed to one of the picks that Sherlock used more than others. "I could tell that you taught yourself because usually these areas of the pick would not even come into contact with the lock, and the fact that they did means that you had no idea what you were doing. I know you taught yourself today because some of the coating dust is still on the pick. I know that you stole it today because I know you, and you would not have waited between stealing it and using it for the first time. Simple."

"Simple," Sherlock agreed. It always was, and yet Mycroft was still better at it than he was.

"So, let's hear it. How did you steal this?" The fact that Mycroft looked so calm now led Sherlock to think that his brother was concentrating as much as he could on deductions and facts to keep his mind off everything else.

"How did you know I didn't buy it?" Sherlock asked, sitting down in Mycroft's chair where he sat before.

"If you had bought it, it would have come with an instruction manual, moron." Mycroft had never, ever called him that before. Sherlock was actually quite hurt. Then again, he guessed he deserved to be called names. Five minutes ago Sherlock was sure that his brother was going to murder him, so if anything, he should really be grateful. The story took a few minutes, and as Sherlock spoke Mycroft listened without a sound. At the end, his brother smiled a genuinely amused smile.

"That's the most ridiculously elaborate and unnecessarily complicated plan I have **ever** heard," He said, "I would have just broken into his locker, emptied his kit into my pocket, put some sort of heavy stone inside to give it the right weight, and left the case inside. The kid wouldn't have opened the case during break times, because he wouldn't have had time, and he had no reason to anyway since he couldn't even use it. He would have only found out about the crime at the end of the day, at which point I would already be on the train home and no one would have had any reason at all to suspect me." Sherlock gave him a sulky look. Perhaps Mycroft's revenge for what Sherlock did was to repeatedly make him feel like a complete imbecile.

Mycroft suddenly rose from his bed and ran his hand through his hair. He collected the journals and returned them to the drawer under the TV set. Then he pushed it shut with his foot. He took a deep breath and said "Sherlock, do you realize what would happen to me if you ever decided to tell anyone **anything** of what you read?" His voice was quiet. While the two were talking about deductions Mycroft had seemed almost normal, if a little more cynical and critical. Now that they were finished, it was like his brother had deflated. He did not even look angry anymore. He just looked tired, miserable, even scared.

"I told you I would never tell anyone," Sherlock answered. Mycroft sighed and sat back down on his bed with his back against the wall.

"That doesn't answer my question. Sherlock, if you ever tell anyone what you've read people would never trust me again because they would wonder how many of their secrets I know. Also, father would kick me out of the house, which would be tremendously inconvenient for me at this present time. My goals are currently entirely dependent on whether or not you can keep a secret."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Mycroft was not asking sarcastically. He was genuinely curious. Sherlock stopped to think about it. If anything he had read got out, Mycroft would lose everything he had worked for diligently, almost obsessively, for the past nineteen years. How could Sherlock possibly understand anything like that? What has he ever done that could even compare?

"Understand cognitively, yes. Relate, no," Sherlock finally answered. Mycroft smiled a very humourless smile. He reached into his pocket and handed Sherlock the key to the room.

"You can leave."

"What?"

"You. Can. Leave. See you later, Brother," Mycroft gave a small sarcastic wave and Sherlock could tell that he really wanted him gone.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked. He was staring at his brother, who had taken a book out of his bag and was now reading it.

"What did you think I would do? Kill you? I just wanted to make sure you understood how important it was that you keep my secrets to yourself. I believe you do, and as much as I would love to shout at you until you turn fifteen, we both have better uses for our time." Sherlock wondered what he would do if he were in Mycroft's position. He would freak out. He would cry and hit the person who read his journal, and he would lie through his teeth to somehow convince this person that everything he had read was false, but Sherlock should have known that Mycroft would not do any of these things. If reading his journals had taught him anything, it's that Mycroft had always been the more logical of the two. He would gain nothing from these things, and so he did not do them.

"And you're not going to punish me?"

"I'm not father. I was never going to punish you. Now get out." Mycroft turned a page in his book, but Sherlock was pretty sure that his eyes had not moved a micrometre since he started reading.

"You're not going to make me give back the kit?" Sherlock asked.

"I think you probably should, but I have to say that right now I could not care less if you do." Sherlock unlocked the door and turned to give Mycroft his key back.

"Keep it," he said without looking up. Sherlock had no idea how Mycroft even knew he was being offered the key, "we both know that if I give you access to my room it will lose its appeal and you will never come in here again."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft probably had some sort of agenda, and everything he was doing was probably based on countless deductions that he could not fathom, but he still could not believe his luck.

"Well, and I'll also change the type of lock I use on my drawer, obviously. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and left the room. He closed the door behind him and it locked with a faint _click_. Two seconds later he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fist crashing into a wall, followed by the unmistakable sounds of someone biting back a cry of pain. His brother was still only human, after all.

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><p>Did you like it? Please review if you did (or if you didn't, or if you have nothing to say, or if your name starts with A, or B, or C.. You get where I'm going with this). I don't know when I'll be able to upload the next chapter. I haven't finished it yet, and I'm going on a week long trip st Sunday, so I'll either upload the next chapter this Saturday, or the next. Either way, don't be worried if I disappear for a little while. I promises this story will continue!<p>

Again, review please!


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, look, I'm not dead! I know I'm late, but there was tons of stuff happening. I'm sorry. Hope you like this chapter =)

Sherlock's still not mine.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 5<span>**

Mycroft left early the next morning for a job interview (this was why he was at home in the first place, apparently), and Sherlock pretended not to notice the way he winced every time he moved the fingers of his right hand. After he'd left and before Sherlock had to go to school, the younger boy unlocked his brother's room and stepped inside. He did it mostly to prove Mycroft wrong, but unfortunately he found very quickly that Mycroft was right. When it was freely accessible the room had no appeal at all. The drawer under the TV set had a brand new dial lock on it, and Sherlock knew without checking that unlike the ones at school, this one would not open with the aid of a paper cup. After ten minutes of proving Mycroft wrong, Sherlock left the room and went to school.

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><p>Finding locks to pick in his house was slightly more difficult than he thought it would be. The day after the Mycroft incident, Sherlock remembered that there was a locked drawer in his father's night stand. He opened it after school, but one look inside assured him that he <strong>never ever wanted to open private drawers in his parents' bedroom ever again ever <strong>and he relocked it, swearing to never approach it again.

It took him three more days to remember the shed. The shed was an old wooden box on their front lawn. It had been there forever, and hadn't been opened in years. It was only locked to keep thieves out. Sherlock did not expect to find anything interesting in there, but it was a locked door, and therefore fit his only criterion for investigation, so he took his lock picking kit outside and started working on the slightly rusted lock. Every once in a while, he would be stopped by an idiot passer-by who thought he was breaking into the shed to **steal something**. One of them, a fat policeman, actually grabbed him by the collar and Sherlock shrieked and kicked until the man let him go and Sherlock could explain, in his most scathing tone, the man's mistake (_"Why on earth would I break into this dingy shed when I could theoretically break into the house that's **right there and clearly empty**, you sorry, pathetic excuse for an intelligent human being?"_ Sherlock shouted with a finger pointed at his own house). Finally, after five interruptions and about twenty minutes, the lock turned and Sherlock, putting his whole weight against the wooden door and its rusted hinges, opened the door. Once he managed to move the door a little, it became completely loose in its hinges, so Sherlock lifted one of the heavy boxes inside and used it as a doorstop to prevent the door from closing and relocking. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in this dusty, claustrophobic wooden box, especially since his parents would only be coming back from work in two hours. Then he looked around.

The shed mostly contained work tools that his family owned for reasons unknown to Sherlock. His father never repaired anything himself, so the hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and even a very old electric drill all lay discarded in dusty boxes inside. Sherlock suddenly noticed a large spider standing where the doorstop-box used to be. He crouched down and stared at it. It seemed to be a common garden spider, the kind that he would sometimes catch at school and release on people's desk to alleviate his boredom for about fifteen minutes. Sherlock saw its countless eyes peering up at him and the eight furry legs twitching in case the spider had to run. A black pattern ran down its brown legs. They stared at each other, unmoving, for about thirty seconds. The creature had probably never seen a human before, and was studying the boy as intently as the boy was studying it. Then Sherlock picked up a hammer from a nearby box and killed it.

He rummaged through the other boxes, looking for anything that would make his efforts of breaking in worthwhile. His fingers felt dusty and dry, and sweat coated his forehead, but he hardly noticed. Behind the boxes of tools he found old family souvenirs. He found boxes full of old birthday cards (_"Happy 3rd birthday, Mycroft! I hope all your dreams come true!"_ from an old relative Sherlock did not even know, and, judging by the archaic look of their handwriting, was probably dead by now), heavy boxes full of photo albums from before he was born, and a box of audio cassettes, together with an old model cassette player and a compact, portable tape recorder. His eyes lit up. Finally, something he remembered. He pulled out the box of cassettes and took it outside the shed to look at it in the sun. His mother, a microbiologist, had bought the family's first cassette recorder when she was doing her Ph.D. and needed to record observations. Sherlock received it as a present when she was finished. The boy now placed the cassette player inside the box with the tapes and carried them inside his house. He plugged in the old cassette player and sat cross legged on the carpet, looking through the labelled cassettes. The first one was labelled _July 13th, 1986, _when he was six years old. The handwriting was very shaky and barely even legible, so Sherlock assumed that he had labelled it himself back then. He opened the cassette player, blew on it to remove the mountain of dust that had piled inside it (and then spent about a minute coughing his lungs out, as the dust had nowhere to go but straight into his mouth), and placed the tape carefully inside.

He pressed play. The cassette player creaked as the machine started working for the first time in about four years, and white noise filled the room. Suddenly, Sherlock heard a voice that he did not recognize at all.

"_Tape one,_" The voice said, it was very high, and spoke in a very childish tone, merging syllables and mispronouncing sounds. It was not a huge leap of deduction to figure out that he was hearing the six-year old Sherlock Holmes. _"I… I'm bored. And it's late. And I'm not tired."_ Twelve-year-old Sherlock smiled. This sounded very familiar.

"_But that's ok, because now that I have a tape recorder, I can investigate things!" _The boy sounded quite excited. To anyone other than the older Sherlock, the connection between "I have a tape recorder" and "Let's investigate!" might not have been obvious, but he remembered that when he was about six his family would watch a weekly TV show about a detective who always used a tape recorder to record observations and interviews. The TV detective was admired by all for being the cleverest person in the room, also he did not have to go to school and was never bored. At the time, Sherlock had yearned to be him. Suddenly, the older Sherlock heard muffled conversation in the background.

"_My parents are talking. I wonder what they're talking about. I should investigate,"_ The young Sherlock said. He was talking in the deep tone that the TV detective used, only his was completely emotionless. It took him years before he learned to imitate feelings. The older Sherlock heard the sound of feet pattering on a wooden floor and the voices got louder. He realized that the younger Sherlock had left his room to listen. He heard a faint _thump_ as the cassette recorder was placed somewhere on the floor near the door.

"_I don't understand, why does he have to be such a problem child?" _His father's voice had not changed at all in six years.

"_He's not a **problem child**, Siger, he's just a little different." _His mother sounded irritated, and Sherlock could tell by her tone that they had had this conversation many times before.

"_A little different? Having no friends, not talking unless it's to tell someone they're inferior, walking off in the middle of conversations because he's **bored**, telling my colleagues their secrets to their faces? That's not **a little different! **I'm tired of getting calls every two days about a new disorder his psychologist thinks he has!"_ Sherlock increased the volume on the cassette player and lay back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling and listening. He was actually enjoying this list of all the mischief he got up to when he was six. _"People at work are starting to talk!"_

"_Is this what this is about? People at work talking?"_

"_Violet, these **people at work** are important, and if I want to get ahead in my field I can't have rumours flying around that my son has conduct disorder!" _What the hell was **conduct disorder**? Sherlock was going to have to look that one up.

"_Sherlock does **not** have **Conduct Disorder**! He'll grow out of it, Siger, he's only six!"_

"_Mycroft could recite a list of Britain's kings and queens at six! He could play the piano like a highly gifted ten-year-old, and he had manners so perfect people would ask him if he's related to the royal family!"_

"_Sherlock plays the violin phenomenally well for his age."_

"_Yes, when he's not testing how much screeching we can take before we all lose our minds!"_

"_Look, I'll have a word with his psychologist…"_

"_That little menace doesn't take his psychologist seriously!" _His father screamed and the cassette player screeched. Sherlock winced from the noise and quickly lowered the volume. _"He doesn't understand how important it is for him to be normal!"_

"_Then what do **you **suggest?"_

"_I suggest we keep him out of the way when important people are coming over._" His tone was too bitter for him to be talking theoretically. Sherlock suddenly remembered that July 13th was his father's birthday. He could only assume that his father had invited colleagues over and Sherlock had managed to destroy their party in some way.

"_Oh, come **on**. We can't lock our son in his room when company's coming over."_

"_Perhaps some institution will be willing to take him in. He's definitely difficult enough to fit their criteria for hospitalization."_

"_You want your son to be institutionalized?" _His mother sounded as shocked as Sherlock felt. He stared at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes and tried to ignore how sick he suddenly felt.

Should he really be listening to this?

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><p>Did you like it? I know it cuts off right in the middle, and I'm sorry =]<br>I have the next chapter written already (actually, it started as one chapter, but then I realized that it was about twice as long as a normal chapter, so I cut it in the middle...) and will upload it in a few days.

(BTW, in case you're wondering, I got Sherlock's parent's names from an article that I found on the internet...)

**Please please please review!** Reviews honestly make my day =]


	6. Chapter 6

Oh look, it's a new chapter!

The story's nearly finished! I think there will only be one more chapter (two more chapters max, if it turns out longer than I think it will).

By the way, thank you very much to all of you who have faved the story or put it on your alert list, I hope you like it so far =]

Sherlock isn't mine, or I would be out in the real world making money! =D

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 6<span>**

His father seemed entirely unaware that he had said something wrong.

"_Right now,"_ He continued,"_he needs the help. They might even improve his condition."_

"_Siger, you can't possibly-"_

"_Violet, in my field of work one bad rumour about your family is enough to ruin your career, so the way things are right now, the boy is holding me back. I'd much rather have rumours flying around about how we had to institutionalize our poor boy, than about how I have a son who's borderline autistic and has conduct disorder."_ Sherlock expected to hear harsh things (he knew that his father was not terribly fond of him), but his father saying that Sherlock should be institutionalized so that Siger could get ahead in politics was a little bit harsher than he had expected. He took a deep breath and forced himself not to lower the volume.

"_You think your own son should be taken away from this household because you want the sympathy vote at work?" _His mother sounded furious.

"_It's the ideal option under the circumstances! Of course I'd prefer it if he was like Mycroft, or just normal, for that matter!" _His father shouted.

"What the hell…" Twelve-year-old Sherlock whispered at the ceiling. He was no expert on families, but surely this wasn't normal. Fathers were not supposed to say things like this, were they? Six-year-old Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind, or at least, he didn't react. Sherlock could picture his younger self standing next to the door, trying to understand what his father was saying and wondering if he actually meant it. He wondered if he had cared back then. Suddenly, he heard another voice talking. It was an urgent whisper on Sherlock's side of the door, so it was much louder and made older Sherlock jump.

"_Sherlock! Why are you awake?" _It took Sherlock a few seconds to recognize his brother's voice. Mycroft was about thirteen at the time and his voice hadn't quite changed yet. It was a lot higher than his brother's voice now, but it still had a very recognizable Mycroft-ish quality about it.

"_Mycoft, what's __**in-sta-too-son-lize**__?"_ The six year old Sherlock asked. Sherlock wanted to shout "No! Don't tell him!", but his brother replied.

"_It's In-sti-tu-tion-a-lize, Sherlock. It's when someone is taken away from their family to get help for some problem they have_." Sherlock found himself wondering what observations and deductions led Mycroft to tell him the truth.

"_Will I be institutionalized?" _Sherlock could hear his father in the background saying something about "I've been trying to get this promotion for years and the little maniac had to go and annoy my boss" and "I can't take it anymore".

"_Sherlock," _Mycroft said. His tone was icy. _"You will __**never**__ be taken away from this house. As long as I'm here, they will never touch you. I won't let them. Do you understand?"_

"_Does Daddy hate me?"_ Sherlock did not realize there was a time when he had called his father Daddy. As long as he could remember, it was Father. Father and Mummy. It took Mycroft a few seconds to answer.

"_Hey, remember when we saw a frog in our garden yesterday?"_ What the hell was his brother talking about? Little Sherlock didn't reply, but apparently he showed some form of confirmation, because Mycroft continued. _"Well, if you go to sleep right now, we'll dissect one tomorrow."_

"_YES!" _Sherlock cried and there was sound of feet again. Older Sherlock could hear Mycroft sigh as his younger brother went to his room. It was a sign of how preoccupied his brother was that he did not notice the tape recorder next to his feet. Sherlock listened as he took another few deep breaths and opened the door to his parents' room.

"_Maybe you don't understand how important this job is to me! I-"_

"_SHUT UP!"_ Mycroft shouted as he entered the room. Sherlock did not think he could be any more shocked by this tape, but like many times before, Mycroft had proven him wrong.

"_Mycroft, why are you awake?"_

"_Mycroft, you will __**not**__ tell me to shut up!"_ His parents spoke at the same time. Mycroft disregarded his mother completely, only answering his father.

"_I will tell you to shut up if what you're saying is damaging my brother!"_ He shouted. _"Do you think he doesn't have ears? Do you think he's an idiot, and that he doesn't understand what you're saying about him?" _Mycroft was screaming, standing up for Sherlock in front of their father. Sherlock could hardly believe his ears. These days this would not have happened.

"_It doesn't make it less true! The boy is poison to this family's status, and you should realize it as well!"_

"_HE. IS. NOT."_ Mycroft's sounded absolutely livid. Sherlock remembered his anger four days ago and realized that as scary as it was, it didn't even compare to this. _"How can you even think that your __**stupid **__**job **__in politics is more important than your son? That what other people say or think is more important than him? __**HOW CAN YOU EVEN SAY THA-"**_

_WHAM!_

Sherlock heard the sound of a loud cry of pain, and a body hitting the door.

"_You will not talk to me like that, you insolent child! Do you understand?"_ Sherlock's mind was failing to process what had just happened. His father had hit Mycroft. Mycroft, the world's most perfect child, had just been hit for defending Sherlock. If before Sherlock had managed to create a picture in his mind of what he was hearing, now it was impossible. It was simply too bizarre to imagine.

"_Siger, don't…"_ Their mother said.

"_Daddy, you-"_ Mycroft started. Sherlock heard a sound of another hit and another cry of pain.

"_Don't call me that! You're not a child anymore!"_

"_Father, all I'm trying to say is that-"_

"_Be quiet, don't try to meddle with things that are none of your concern. I thought you were better than that. Your brother is obviously influencing you. Now leave!"_

"_Fine, just…"_ Mycroft started, the anger still very apparent in his voice. Sherlock wondered if he was waiting to see if he was going to get hit again, after a few seconds he continued, _"Just stop comparing him to me. He doesn't have to be like me. I don't want him to be like me,"_ After reading Mycroft's diaries it became perfectly clear to Sherlock what his brother meant. Mycroft was saying "I don't want Sherlock to act all the time, let him be himself". His father had no idea, though, so he just said:

"_Don't worry, I don't want him to be like __**you**__ either, now go."_ The door opened and closed, and Sherlock could hear Mycroft sit down next to the wall, breathing deeply. His parents continued to talk quietly in the background.

"_Dammit, dammit, dammit! Mycroft, you fucking idiot!"_ his brother said under his breath, and Sherlock could hear him kicking the floor with his heel, _"There go seven years of work on that degenerate oaf!"_ Was Mycroft talking about his father? Mycroft **never** talked like this about **anyone**. Sherlock couldn't blame him, though. Mycroft was probably the most dignified and well-mannered person Sherlock knew, and he could only imagine how angry it would make him to be silenced violently by his own father. The fact that he had just completely ruined his father's opinion of him also didn't help. Mycroft spent about three minutes in silence before speaking again.

"_Sherlock?"_ He asked out loud. Older Sherlock could hear him rise to his feet, _"Sherlock, if you're awake answer me_," He walked away from the tape recorder and his voice became more and more distant. _"If you answer me, we'll dissect __**two**__ frogs tomorrow…"_ There were ten seconds of silence.

"_Thank god."_ Mycroft said, then Sherlock heard a door close and there was a nothing left but static noise. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to let the white noise drown the noises in his head. It wasn't working. His emotions felt like they were setting fire to his brain. He tried to put his finger on what exactly it was that he was feeling, but found it impossible. He didn't know how to deal with such complexity of emotion. All he knew was that he did not feel good and that it wasn't fun. He tried to force himself to stop feeling so terrible, but that also didn't work.

"So what?" He asked the air, "So Father never liked me, I already knew that. So Mummy didn't do anything, so what? I **wasn't** institutionalized in the end…" Was he really, or did he just forget it afterwards? No. Surely, he wasn't. "I wasn't institutionalized, so why does it matter?" It did, though. No amount of rationalizing could convince him otherwise. For some incomprehensible reason, it mattered a lot.

At that moment the front door opened and Sherlock's father came in. Sherlock jumped to a sitting position and turned the cassette player off.

"Sherlock?" His father asked with a frown, "What in the world have you done to our carpet?" Sherlock looked and realized that he had left gigantic patches of dust and cobwebs everywhere. He didn't care. He looked at his father's slightly confused face and suddenly felt anger rise in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to yell at him. He wanted to take a knife from the kitchen and push it into his father, as deep as it would go. Instead, he bolted out of the living room and into his own room, slamming the door after him and locking it.

The world could burn as far as he was concerned. He was not coming out.

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><p>Did you like it?<p>

This is the part where I say "please review" and people still don't... I'm kidding XP

Anyway, **please review!** I cannot describe how happy it makes me to see reviews. Tell me what you think of the story so far, I'd really really love to hear it (even if you hate it, or even if you have nothing to say about it, it only takes a second)!

I'm sick right now, which basically means that I'll have plenty of time to finish the story, so the next chapter will be up real soon!


	7. Chapter 7

Hey everyone! Remember when I told you this would be the last chapter? I was wrong. Expect one more (actually, apparently I really suck at estimating these things, so expect a random number of chapters to come. This story **will** end eventually, I promise).

This chapter turned out super long, but I really didn't want to cut it, so I hope you don't mind. Also, it took me ages to get it right, so I hope you like it =D

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

Sherlock left his room for the first time at three in the morning after making sure that both his parents were asleep. He took a shower to get the dust out of his hair, grabbed a slice of bread from the kitchen and went back to his room.

He was actively avoiding his parents and it was unlike him. Of course, the boy would often disappear into his room and not emerge for days, but that was usually due to some experiment. This time Sherlock wasn't even sure why he was doing it. He was angry at his father for saying he should be institutionalized, and he was angry at his mother for doing nothing but utter some very minimal objections. He didn't even know what to think about his brother.

"And what exactly am I supposed to do now?" He asked the walls quietly. He sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. He could pretend that nothing had happened. In fact, he **should** pretend that nothing had happened. It's not like anything was objectively different. What he had heard happened six years ago.

"Stop caring," He instructed himself, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, "It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. Stop thinking about it. Stop caring." He did not want to stay in the house with his parents anymore. He considered packing and leaving, but that idea was so impractical that it actually made him laugh at himself. Where would he go? He had no grandparents, and Mycroft lived in a dorm at Oxford, so he could hardly turn up on his doorstep.

"You're alone, Holmes," He said to himself, "living under the roof of people who would rather institutionalize you. What a picture perfect family." There was noise in his head, and it was getting louder and louder.

Suddenly, he couldn't bear to look at the walls anymore. He got up, grabbed a jacket and scarf from his cupboard and walked out of his house. Immediately he was hit by the frozen wind. He forgot how cold it could get at these hours. He wrapped his arms around himself and strode across his lawn. Something shiny on the grass caught his eye. He approached it and realised that it was the lock picking kit. He had forgotten it next to the shed.

"Damn thing," He whispered, tucking all the picks carefully inside the case and placing it in his pocket. He chose a random direction and started walking, not particularly caring where the roads took him. The sky was clear and starry and ridiculously beautiful. The streets were empty and silent, and Sherlock stared at his shadow on the pavement as it distorted when he moved from streetlight to streetlight in the dark.

Before he knew it he had reached a bridge. The water was calm, and Sherlock stared at it, transfixed, for about ten minutes. His family never seemed more far away. The noise in his head was gone. While he was thinking about how frozen he felt, or how quiet and calm it was at 4 a.m., or how ridiculously beautiful the stars were or how the water looked so peaceful in the moonlight he didn't have to think about anything else. It was not a solution to his problems, and he knew that the noise would return as soon as he returned to his house, but for now it was fine. Sherlock pulled out the kit from his pocket. He threw it in the air and caught it a few times, listening to the sound of it hitting his palm. Everything was music to his ears when there were no other noises to ruin it.

Then he missed. The case slipped between his fingers and he had to lean over the edge of the bridge to catch it. He held the it above the water, unmoving. What if he just let go? Should he? And more importantly: Even if he knew that he should, would he do it? Was this the solution to his problems?

He suddenly remembered what Mycroft had said a few days ago when Sherlock had asked him if he had to give back the kit.

"_I think you probably should, but I have to say that right now I could not care less if you do." _

Did Mycroft say this because returning stolen items was the moral thing to do, or did he know what Sherlock would find if he kept looking? Mycroft hardly ever gave Sherlock moral advice, so why would he start now? Sherlock realized that Mycroft probably knew exactly was hidden in their house, and he knew how Sherlock would feel if he found it. Then he realized another thing:

"Mycroft didn't even know about this tape," Sherlock muttered, the chattering of his teeth making his speech sound strange, "He didn't notice it." Then what **was** he thinking about? How much more could Sherlock find if he actually looked? And did he want to?

He realized that he didn't. He had seen enough. He didn't want to spend every night of his life from now on on the streets of London, silencing the noise in his head. He didn't need this. Then again, he was curious. What did Mycroft know that he didn't? What else was his family keeping from him? How much could he find out with the help of a simple lock pick? And anyway, running away from the truth was cowardly. Not finding the secrets would not mean that reality was any better, it would just mean that Sherlock was ignorant about it.

"One, two, three," Sherlock counted and hurled the leather case as far as he could into the river. It landed with a loud splash a good distance from where he was standing. He regretted it almost immediately.

"You coward," He told himself, "Stupid, sensitive, ignorant, coward…"

"Hey!" Someone called behind him. He turned around to see a man in his twenties approaching him. He had spiky black hair, dark eyes, and a grey suit. Sherlock saw white dust on his shoes and trousers. He looked very tired and slightly miserable, and was carrying a dirty, bloody shoe in his trouser pocket. "You shouldn't throw garbage in the Thames, you know."

"Is it illegal?" Sherlock asked. The man took out a cigarette and a lighter and spent an annoyingly long time lighting his cigarette and reminding Sherlock how cold he was.

"To be honest?" He finally asked, "I'm not bothered. It's been a long day. Throw whatever you want in the Thames, for all I care." When the man raised his hand to his mouth to draw on his cigarette, Sherlock noticed a gold watch on his wrist.

"You're a detective," Sherlock remarked.

"Huh?" The man walked to the edge of the bridge and stood next to Sherlock, "How did you know?"

"The only people who wander around at this time of night are either drunks, homeless people, or people who have night shifts. You don't look drunk and that watch is way too expensive for a homeless person."

"Yes, I'm on a night shift, so-" He started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Your posture and gait suggest either an army or law enforcement job. Your hair's too long for the army, so you're with the police. You're not wearing a uniform, so-"

"So I'm a detective. That's a keen eye you've got there," The detective smiled.

"Quiet a low ranking detective, I'd say," Sherlock mused and gave him a wry grin. The detective frowned.

"How did you-"

"Your age, no deductions necessary."

"I'm twenty six, you arrogant little sod, and definitely old enough to be at least a Detective Sergeant," The detective said, but laughed nonetheless. This man certainly had a better sense of humour than most of Sherlock's teachers or neighbours, who did not take his observation so well most of the time, "What's your name?"

"John," Sherlock said the first name that came to his head. He assumed people were going to look for him, and right now he didn't want to be found. Telling people his real name would leave quiet an obvious breadcrumb trail.

"John what?"

"John What- Watson," Sherlock stammered and hoped that the detective would attribute it to his chattering teeth. John Watson? Believable enough. There were probably thousands of John Watsons in the phone book.

"Nice to meet you, John Watson, I'm DC Greg Lestrade. So, yes, you were right about the rank." He held out a hand and Sherlock shook it cautiously. Nobody had ever shaken his hand before.

"So, are you drunk, homeless, or on a night shift?" Lestrade asked with a smile.

"Neither."

"So what are you doing here?"

"I'm throwing things in the Thames," Sherlock replied. That was **technically** a very accurate answer.

"Yes, what **did** you throw?"

"Nothing of importance. Why do you have a bloodied shoe in your pocket?"

"Evidence. I should be going to Scotland Yard right now."

"Evidence?" Sherlock's eyes lit up, "Can I see?"

"Of course you can't, that would be tampering with evidence."

"I can help you find whoever it is you're looking for." Lestrade laughed.

"You? What are you, ten years old?"

"**TWELVE!**" Sherlock's shout reverberated through the silent streets. It felt strange to make a noise when everything was so quiet.

"Awfully short for a twelve year old, aren't you?" Sherlock was going to yell something about how his brother and father were really tall, and that he was going to hit his growth spurt any day now, but then remembered that he had dignity.

"I'm not too young to tell you that you lost a person in a construction site today," Sherlock said with a scowl. Lestrade looked at Sherlock as if he had just grown a second head. The boy explained:

"Dust on your trousers. If you'd been walking, it would only be on your shoes, but you were running, so your trousers are covered in it as well. The colour of it suggests construction work. **So**, you've been running through construction sites. Why would you do that? Most probably you were chasing someone, because that's what detectives do. Now you're taking a long walk looking dejected and dreading your return to Scotland Yard, so I assume you didn't catch them. Is that their shoe?" Lestrade sighed and buried his face in his palms. Sherlock tried not to look too pleased himself.

"Talking to you is really tiring, John. Has anyone ever told you that?" Yes, they have, but Sherlock did not tell him that, "and yes, it is their shoe," The detective pulled the shoe out of his pocket. He sat on a nearby bench and Sherlock sat next to him.

"We were following a lead," Lestrade started. Sherlock took the shoe, held it with the tips of his fingers and studied it closely, "When we saw this bloke carrying armfuls of goods from a shop. When he saw our unit he made a face and ran off, so we assumed he was stealing and ran after him."

"That's impulsive of you…" Sherlock commented. The shoe was a brand new, expensive running shoe. There was blood coating the bottom of the sole.

"Probably, but the case we were supposed to be working on was a mortgage fraud and those are so boring that we get distracted very easily. Anyway, this bloke we were chasing knew the area very well, and also ran really fast. He started running through this construction site. Got one shoe stuck between concrete blocks, that's the shoe you're seeing right now."

"I assume he took the other one off."

"He did, immediately after. Then we lost him."

"Did you go back to the shop later?"

"Yes, and that's exactly the problem. If he was simply shoplifting this would not even be a case, but when we came back we saw there was a murder. The shopkeeper was stabbed in the chest, and we let a murderer escape."

"When and where was this?"

"A few hours ago in a 24-hour supermarket." Sherlock was silent for about thirty seconds. Then he handed the shoe back to Lestrade.

"Don't waste your time on this kid. He didn't do it."

"What? How could you know that from his shoe?" Lestrade shook his head.

"The shopkeeper was stabbed." Sherlock started. He could see Lestrade doubted him and it scared him. Usually adults that doubted him simply ignored him and walked away. He didn't want that to happen.

"Yes, I know, but-"

"In the **chest**, Detective! Don't you think he would have **bled**?"

"And he did. The whole floor was covered in it."

"You have to get **really close** to someone if you want to stab them in the chest. It takes force! The shopkeeper would have bled all over his killer! There would be blood on the top of the shoe as well as the bottom. The way it looks right now, this kid just walked into the shop, stepped in the blood and shoplifted. It's a crime, but it's not murder."

"That…" Lestrade started, then he sighed and rubbed his eyes, "That makes a lot of sense."

"I know it does," Sherlock drew his knees up to his chin and stared at the river. "If you're looking for the murderer I would suggest looking into all the people who had a grudge against the shopkeeper. No one kills just because they want to steal groceries. " Lestrade took a long drag on his cigarette.

"I can't believe I'm taking detection tips from a child…" Lestrade muttered, and Sherlock replied with a sulky _HMPH_. "But in all honesty, that was amazing. You should be a detective when you grow up." Sherlock's eyes suddenly lit up.

"What did you say?"

"You should be a det-" Lestrade started slowly. He seemed surprised by how quickly Sherlock changed from silent sulking to wide-eyed questioning.

"**No**! Before that!"

"That was amazing. It was." Sherlock smiled so widely it gave him an unfamiliar feeling in his cheeks. No one had ever called him amazing before. His classmates called him "freak", his teachers called him "insolent", and his parents (when they in a good mood) called him "bright" at most. "Amazing" was reserved for Mycroft.

"You should be getting home now, John, it's five in the morning," Lestrade said, getting up, "You'll catch a cold sitting here in your pyjamas." Sherlock looked at himself. He completely forgot he was wearing pyjamas. He tried to look as if it was completely intentional.

"Are you going to take the shoe the Scotland Yard as evidence?" He asked.

"My boss would kill me if I didn't, though I believe you that it won't help us find the killer at all."

"You could take me to the crime scene," Sherlock said, trying not to show how much he wanted this, "I could help you find the murderer."

"I don't have access to it. I'm just a Detective Constable," Lestrade shrugged, "I would if I could. I believe the police should use any resources they have, even if they are ten year old children." He gave Sherlock a teasing smile, daring him to yell out that he was twelve.

"That's fine," Sherlock returned an identical grin. He got up from the bench and started walking across the bridge.

"Give me a call when you're promoted and can bend the rules a little. Should be any day now. After all, you're definitely old enough to be at** least** a Detective Sergeant." Lestrade also stood and started walking in the opposite direction, muttering something about "arrogant children", and leaving Sherlock alone in the best mood he'd been in in years.

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><p>Did you like it?<p>

A few notes:

1. I think young Lestrade would be a real idealist, who would use any resources he had to help him fight crime. He would have to be, to let Sherlock onto crime scenes when he was older.

2. Rupert Graves is 14 years older than Benedict Cumberbatch, so I let myself have the same age gap with the characters.

3. When I was in London it really amused me that the police walked differently from the rest of the people. They had this slow, confident stride that I haven't seen anywhere else. I referred to that here.

I hope you don't mind that the chapter was **freakin' massive**.

and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review, because it makes me love the universe =]


	8. Chapter 8

Hey, guess what: good news! I have finished writing the story. Bad/good news (depending on your outlook): it has nine chapters + an epilogue. So yes, I lied again. This is not the final chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last one, every one of you truly makes my day =D

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

And, although I admit that more than a week had passed and everything can change in that amount of time, Sherlock **still** isn't mine.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 8<span>**

Sherlock woke up, realized that he was in a tree, was startled by that fact and promptly fell out of the tree.

"OUCH!" He cried when he hit the ground, more out of surprise than anything else. Why was he asleep in a tree? When did he even **climb** a tree? He looked around, absent-mindedly massaging the shoulder that broke his fall, and tried to remember what happened after he had left the bridge the previous night. He could only assume that he had reached this place, climbed the tree and accidently fell asleep in it. But what **was** this place? He was near a tree that was on grass that was near a street that he didn't recognize. How could he get here and just **fall asleep**? He must have been exhausted. He noticed a few busy-looking people in serious-looking suits walking purposefully on the pavement next to his tree and deduced that the time was probably around seven O'clock in the morning. He had time to go home, change his clothes, and go to school. Did he want to do that, though?

"NO," He whispered to himself. A freezing wind hit him and he tightened his jacket around his thin frame. He had nothing to do in the city, and no money to buy food if and when he wanted to; not to mention that fact that he was wearing his pyjamas, which was making him feel more self-conscious than he would admit. Even the tape didn't feel like such a big deal any more after he'd had some rest, but despite all these things he was sure that he did not want to lay a foot in his house again. He knew it was unrealistic for a child to live alone, but he didn't care. He was not going to let his parents say horrible things and still have any control over him. He started walking down a random road. It was hard to believe that he was walking on the same streets as last night. Yesterday this place had been the most tranquil place in the world. Today it seemed more like a beehive, with people running around and noise coming from every direction. Sherlock watched the people as they zoomed passed him. Usually he enjoyed watching people, but today it was just depressing. All these people had a purpose, they all had something to do, while Sherlock had nothing to do but wander aimlessly in the streets.

"I need to find something interesting to do with my time."

He suddenly reached the bridge from the night before. He didn't know that he was heading towards it before he was standing on it. For a second his eyes flicked to where the lock picking kit sank yesterday. Did he do the right thing? He regretted it even more now than he did yesterday. He threw away an incredibly valuable piece of equipment, just because he was scared of the truth. For a second he considered buying a new kit, or diving in the river to get the old one. Then he remembered that he had no money and that his plans for the day did not include drowning in polluted water.

He passed by the bench that he and the Detective had sat on the night before and a thought hit him. He **did** have something to do with his time! How could he not have thought of this before? Ignoring the confused looks he was getting from the serious adults in serious suits, Sherlock dashed in the direction that Lestrade had come from yesterday. He was going to solve a murder case.

He realized that checking every supermarket in London to find the crime scene would get him nowhere, so he went for the only clue he had:

"Excuse me, where is the nearest construction site?" He asked one of the people on the street. He did not even wait for the verbal answer. The man made a small, unconscious gesture with his head before answering, and Sherlock saw it, said "thank you", and ran off before the man could get the words out. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, a smile quickly growing on his lips. If he could just find the crime scene. If he could just replicate the wonderful feeling he experienced yesterday… Soon he reached the site. He looked through the perimeter fence and saw that it was deserted at the moment. The construction in the area was obviously in its very early stages, so the site was just a big, white, empty lot. Sherlock looked around for a second to ensure that no one was watching before he jumped up and started climbing up the metal fence. He reached the top of it and carefully positioned himself to jump off. Suddenly, his left hand slipped on the barbed wire at the top, and he landed in a painful heap on the white gravel on the other side. He now understood why Lestrade's trousers were so white. This place was practically a desert of white sand. There was not a square inch on his jacket that was completely black anymore. He got up shakily. Nothing seemed to be broken, but his hands were numb from all the cuts and abrasions they had sustained from slipping on the wire and landing on the gravel, and his knee was bleeding slightly. He wiped his hands on his jacket and started walking. He was not going to let a minor fall stop him. After about a minute he saw something that left him so transfixed that he did not feel the pain any more. It was footprints.

"Two sets…" Sherlock noticed the two different types of soles, "Clearly running," The prints were very far from one another. It had to be Lestrade and the shoplifter. No one else had been here since. Sherlock started running to the source of the prints. If he could track where they entered the construction site, he would be able to find the shop easily. It only took Sherlock two minutes to reach two blocks of concrete, about a shoe-width apart. He grinned. If he wasn't sure before that this was the right place, he was now. The tracks led him to another area of the fence, and he (rather hesitantly, after the failure of last time) climbed it. This time he didn't slip, and he landed gently on the other side. He found himself at a rather deserted one-way street and walked to the end of it, where it met with a much larger street. He scanned the area quickly with his eyes and noticed that about one hundred meters to his left there was a supermarket with a police perimeter around it.

"**Bingo!**" Sherlock cried. He made a small ridiculous jump and punched the air with happiness. Then he laughed when he realized what all the other people in the street must be thinking watching him: A little boy wearing a large jacket and pyjamas, bleeding and covered in white dust from head to toe, jumping around and shouting with joy. He ran to the crime scene, ducked under the police tape and…

The supermarket was locked.

"**Why** did I have to throw my bloody lock picking kit in the Thames?" Sherlock shouted. If he didn't already have enough reasons to regret his impulsivity the day before! He desperately tried to look through the door, but it was made of semi-opaque glass, making it impossible to make out anything but vague, coloured blobs. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"John?" He whirled around to see DC Greg Lestrade, holding a large cup of coffee and looking completely exhausted. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Sherlock started. He was standing inside a police perimeter. Was he going to be in trouble? Suddenly, Lestrade smiled.

"You wanted to investigate, didn't you? How did you find this place? Did you use your psychic powers again?" Some people turned and stared at them when he said that.

"I don't have psychic powers," Sherlock pouted. A glance at Lestrade's expensive watch told him that the time was 7:15. "I went to the only construction site in the area and followed the footprints." Much to Sherlock's joy, Lestrade then pulled out a small key from his pocket.

"That would explain the dust... Anyway, you can't come in," Lestrade unlocked the door, but held it shut.

"What?"

"It's against the law. No one is allowed to enter crime scenes except for the police," Greg said. Sherlock remembered that their conversation the night before also started like this. All he had to do was prove to Lestrade that he had something to gain from letting Sherlock in.

"I could help you with that promotion of yours," the boy said quietly, "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"No! I'm on duty," Lestrade said indignantly. The man was a terrible liar.

"No you're not. You wouldn't have a night shift immediately followed by a morning shift. Not to mention the fact that morning shifts start at eight. No, you're here because you want to solve the case yourself, probably because I teased you about your rank yesterday. If you let me in, I can help you."

"You're covered in dust and blood, you'll contaminate the scene," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock pulled off his jacket, wiped his bloody hands on it, and threw it aside.

"T-There," Sherlock winced as the icy air hit him like a hundred knives, "Detective, you said yourself that you would use any resource available if it would help solve a crime!" Lestrade considered his options for about a minute. Sherlock could see his frown deepen as he thought. Finally, he replied.

"Fine! You have ten minutes!" Sherlock tried to conceal his happiness, but since he was smiling the widest smile his mouth was capable of Lestrade probably wasn't fooled. He noticed the detective's eyes flick to the street to see if anyone was watching. When he was satisfied he pushed open the glass door of the supermarket and the two went inside. The first thing Sherlock noticed was the blood. There were bloody footsteps heading from where Sherlock assumed the counter was (it was hidden behind some shelves) to the door. Lestrade saw him looking.

"Some of them belong to the bloke I chased yesterday," He said. He was right. Sherlock noticed a few prints that only showed the front part of the sole, which was consistent with what he saw on the shoe. "Some of them belong to the police as well," he added.

"Some of these possibly belong to our killer," Sherlock replied, his voice icy, "but you and your unit of gorillas completely ruined any evidence we might have found here." Lestrade muttered something about "ungrateful children criticizing police work", but said nothing out loud, possibly because he agreed with Sherlock. The boy then followed the footsteps back to their source.

The first thing he noticed was the pool of blood behind the shelves. The second thing he noticed was the dead body lying in the middle of it.

It was a young man, possibly in his mid-twenties. He was wearing jeans and a black jacket with a nametag that Sherlock couldn't read because it was covered in blood. Until this point Sherlock was unaware that blood had an odour, but now it was filling his nostrils so completely that he was surprised he had missed it before. The man's face was tanned, but now looked strangely purple and waxy. His eyes were slightly open and abnormally sunken. He was covered in small bruises and cuts. Sherlock noticed that his hands were bluish, except for the ring finger on his left hand, which had a very large bruise near the knuckle. Thee man was wearing two rings which were both too big for his fingers, so Sherlock could see the tan mark under them.

"Are you going to be sick?" Lestrade asked behind him, "most people are, on their first time." Sherlock shook his head. He didn't feel sick. He felt **something**, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"Aren't bodies usually removed from crime scenes?" He asked, his voice coming out a lot quieter than he thought it would. His eyes were wide and riveted on the dead man. His heart was beating out of his chest.

"Not until a coroner had examined them. I must remind you that we only found this body three hours ago." Sherlock was very quiet for about a minute. He walked around the pool. Most of the blood clearly originated from the man's chest, but there was too much of it to see the actual wound. His light brown hair was soaked with blood.

"Listen…" Lestrade started, "It was probably a bad idea to bring you here. You're only twelve. I don't want you to go into shock or anything… We could leave n-"

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock's voice was calm. He went to an umbrella stand near the entrance of the shop, picked up a thin umbrella, and used it to lift the man's collar and look under it. The man was wearing a gold necklace and three earrings in one ear.

"God, you're smiling," Lestrade said. Sherlock didn't even notice that he was. He now realized what it was that he was feeling. He was startled by the corpse, obviously, but he wasn't in shock. The adrenaline was sharpening his eyes and mind. He felt like a bloodhound following a scent. He didn't recognize the feeling because he had never felt it before. If "boredom" had a true opposite, this was it, and he was having the most fun he had ever had in his life.

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><p>Hooray for ending a chapter right in the middle of the action =P<p>

Did you like it? Tell me what you thought =D

Next chapter will be uploaded soon (I'm really sorry for the delay on this one, BTW)

**REVIEW PLEASE!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Finally!** I'm so sorry for the delay.

Well, here it is, the final chapter. I hope you like it, and I hoped that you enjoyed the story as a whole. There is a short epilogue that I will publish very soon (and I **mean** that this time!)

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 9<span>**

"How can you **smile **like that?" Lestrade asked. His tone wasn't accusative, it was resigned. He sounded as if nothing that Sherlock could do could surprise or shock him anymore, "Don't you feel bad at all?" Sherlock didn't reply. He realized that perhaps he should feel sympathy for the dead person, but he could not bring himself to feel it. The corpse was simply too intriguing, too much like a riddle, to truly register as a **person** in his mind. He decided not to tell Lestrade this, but rather ignore his question completely. He circled the body for a few more minutes before speaking.

"This man stole a ring. The murderer could be the previous owner," there were a few seconds of silence. Then Lestrade spoke in a small voice.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Are you just guessing, or-"

"I never guess."

"THEN **HOW**?" Sherlock smiled. The small thefts he planned at school were fun, but they had **nothing** on this. Sherlock went around the body and knelt next to its left hand. He felt like a detective on TV, and it was brilliant.

"Well," he started, "the body has one relevant injury."

"I see a few."

"Most of them are just signs of a struggle. The only **interesting** injury is the ring finger of the left hand. See the bruise?" Lestrade walked around the corpse to where Sherlock was kneeling.

"Oh yeah, I see."

"Why would he be bruised then?" Sherlock felt a little like a first grade teacher explaining the concept of addition.

"Because someone pulled at it… Removing a ring, maybe? I mean, the bruise goes all around the finger. What else could it be?"

"Exactly," Sherlock smiled, "Now, look at his skin colour." He gestured at the man's face.

"It's dark."

"It's **tanned**. There's a clear tan line under his collar and under his other rings, but not on his ring finger. So, he was wearing a ring, but he only started recently."

"Then someone could have just been after valuable jewellery. That doesn't mean…" The Detective's voice died in his throat as Sherlock silently grabbed the man's necklace and showed it to Lestrade.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade cried, "You're not sup-"

"This is a gold necklace! The murderer was not after this man's valuables, Detective, or he would have taken this as well," Sherlock said with a small smile, "He was after that **specific** ring, but why?" Sherlock started prodding the man's other rings with his umbrella.

"You're **really **not supposed to-" The detective looked absolutely tormented.

"The ring must have been special. Our victim acquired it recently, and was then murdered for a reason connected with his possession of it. Revenge for theft is the most likely option."

"You're jumping to conclusions," Lestrade placed his coffee on the counter and started walking around the body, inspecting it from every angle.

"Of course, it could always be something else entirely," Sherlock muttered quietly. He quickly walked behind the counter and drained Lestrade's coffee. It was black, and much stronger and sweeter than what his family drank, but after the initial shock he found it quite nice, especially since he had had nothing real to eat since lunch yesterday and only slept two hours the previous night, "Statistically, I'm right."

"Was that my coffee? You arrogant-" Lestrade started, "Oh, never mind. So, let's say I believe you. What do you suggest we do now?"

"Find the ring. Look into any connections this guy had with the black market, it seems like their type of crime," Sherlock mused. Lestrade look very preoccupied for a minute before saying that the police would be coming soon and they should leave. Sherlock felt disappointed when he left the crime scene. He had a feeling that he probably missed a thousand clues. He was not half as good at this as he thought he would be. He silently swore to practice his observational skills until he's good enough to know everything at his glance like Mycroft could.

Five minutes later Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting on the pavement across the street from the supermarket. Sherlock had retrieved his jacket. Lestrade took out a cigarette, lit it in his annoyingly slow fashion, and said:

"You'll be really famous when this ends.** If** you're right, that is."

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, tearing the wrapper off a Yorkie bar that he lifted from the shop. Lestrade gave a reproachful look, but didn't comment.

"I can see the headlines: _John Watson, 12, Fights crime in his pyjamas._" Sherlock thought about that. He would have to Tell Lestrade that he had been using a fake name, and then he would have to explain that he ran away from home and didn't feel like going back. He honestly didn't want to talk about it. He also didn't want newspaper fame. He enjoyed admiration from people he met, but to be questioned by reporters and being recognized everywhere did not sound like something he would like.

"No," Lestrade gave him a questioning stare, "I don't want the credit. You can have it. Get that promotion of yours already."

"Seriously?" Sherlock did not dignify the question with another "yes".

"John, I can't accept this. I have to earn my own promotions."

"I only gave you some leads. I didn't solve the case or anything," Sherlock honestly tried not to sound unhappy about that, but he only partially succeeded. At that moment the police arrived at the scene. A team of forensic investigators, detectives and policemen piled out of their cars and went inside the supermarket.

"I… Thank you. Really, thank you," Lestrade rose from the pavement and headed for the crime scene, "Don't go anywhere!" Sherlock watched as he went inside and started pointing out things to his boss. Sherlock watched Lestrade absent-mindedly for about two minutes before a payphone behind him started ringing. He looked around. There was no one on the street except for him. The boy rose to his feet and stared at the phone for about thirty seconds. It was still ringing. Whoever was calling was very persistent. Finally, he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hello Sherlock," Mycroft's voice came as a completely surprise. Sherlock looked frantically around the street. How did he know where he was?

"Mycroft, How? I mean, How? **How**?" He stammered, unable to say anything more intelligent. Why did his brother **always know everything**?

"Three excellent questions, Brother mine. You might want to look at the top of the building to your right." Sherlock did. The CCTV camera at the top of the building was pointed directly at him. For some reason, Sherlock was not alarmed at all by the knowledge that his brother had access to CCTV footage. If anything, he was relieved, as the alternative was that Mycroft had truly superhuman deductive abilities and had managed to figure out Sherlock's location in his head.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked hostilely. The whole point of him being here was to get away from his family. Couldn't Mycroft leave him alone for once?

"I got a call from mummy about fifteen minutes ago."

"So wha-"

"She was crying. Said you disappeared," Sherlock felt his stomach tighten. He'd made his mother cry? Then he remembered how she didn't protest when his father said that Sherlock should be sent away and his guilt vanished.

"Did she tell you anything else?" He asked, trying his hardest to keep his tone blank.

"She told me you found a tape from July 13th, 1986," Mycroft replied, "And before you ask, I know what was on it and I don't blame you for running."

"Then why are you calling?"

"To tell you to go home."

"You just said-"

"I said I don't blame you, I never said it was the right thing to do. How were you going to survive with nothing but a pair of pyjamas and a jacket? Seriously, Sherlock," there was that tone again, the same one he used when he criticized Sherlock's unimpressive lock picking skills. The one that meant _if you're going to do something stupid, at least do it right._

"I can't look at the house anymore. I'm not coming back."

"Sherlock…" There was genuine pity in his brother's voice, "I hate to say this, but you have to go back and move on."

"What?"

"Go back. Live at home. Act normally."

"What, and secretly plot to rule the world at the same time? I'm not you."

"Doesn't matter. There's no other place for you to live. Sometimes you have to do unpleasant things because you know you have to." Sherlock did not answer. He knew Mycroft was right. Of course he was right. But how could Sherlock go back?

"I threw the lock picking kit in the Thames." Sherlock suddenly said. He did not want to talk about home, and this was the first other subject that came to mind.

"You… _Really_?"

**Finally**. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had said something that his brother truly did not expect. Sherlock was startled by how pleased with himself he felt.

"Yes, it was a cowardly thing to do."

"How so?"

"I didn't want to find anything else," _So I ran away from the truth,_ Sherlock finished in his head. He could not bring himself to complete the sentence aloud.

"So you think that, by throwing away your kit, you were running away from the truth." Mycroft Holmes, mind reader extraordinaire. Sherlock didn't respond and Mycroft took it as a _yes_.

"That's ridiculous, Sherlock. It's completely logical to avoid irrelevant information."

"_Irrelevant_?"

"Remember when you were eight, and I tried to teach you about the solar system?" Mycroft asked, "I explained for about five minutes before you interrupted me and asked me why you would ever need such irrelevant information. This is the same. You don't need to find every little bit of horrible family history. It won't do you any good at all. In fact, it would probably be better for you to erase it entirely, as it simply serves to distract you from more important things."

"Is that what you would do?"

"Me? Of course not, but you were just telling me about how you are definitely not me."

"I shouldn't have thrown the case in the Thames."

"You think so?" He did. Sherlock did not respond for twenty seconds, so Mycroft continued

"Anyway, Sherlock, please go home now. You have no idea how tiring these tearful phone calls from Mummy are." Sherlock said nothing for half a minute before responding. Should he go home? Mycroft had a point. It is unrealistic for him to leave home.

"I'm not going back. I don't want to be controlled by people who hate me."

"Oh, **grow up**, they don't hate you," Mycroft said crossly, "Why must you be so over-dramatic?"

"Says the man who punched through his bedroom wall four days ago," Sherlock retorted.

"I **did not** punch through the wall," Mycroft sounded indignant, and then added quietly, "I hardly even scratched it." Sherlock gave the camera his most unimpressed look. The only thing he could do better than his brother was throw a punch.

"Anyway, never mind my wall. Go home. You have to. Remember that Father is legally obligated to pay for your food. See it as revenge if it helps."

"Is that why you eat so much at home?" Sherlock teased. Seeing child care laws as revenge? His brother could be so evil sometimes.

"Be quiet. Anyway, if you really don't want to live at home you can move to a boarding school. I don't care **what** you do, I just don't want to hear from Mummy again." Mycroft was starting to make too much sense and Sherlock couldn't ignore it anymore.

"Fine."

"Good. By the way, what are you doing right next to that crime scene?"

"Nothing," Sherlock smiled conspiratorially at the camera. He didn't have to tell Mycroft, Mycroft probably already knew.

"I see. Have fun doing nothing. Goodbye Sherlock," Mycroft said, but Sherlock interrupted.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"I… Erm…" Sherlock started. He knew he should say this, but he had no idea how, "On the tape… You… That thing you did… When you yelled at Father for me… That was… I mean…" God, this was painful. He could almost hear Mycroft smile his sarcastic, condescending smile.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Goodbye." Sherlock hung up and realized that Lestrade was standing behind him. When did he return? How could Sherlock not notice?

"My boss said that I had some good observations," He said with a smile, "None of the other detectives noticed the missing ring."

"Good, congratulations on your impending promotion." Sherlock sounded more than a little self-satisfied. He might not have solved that crime like he wanted to, but at least he noticed something that a whole unit of policemen didn't.

"I still have to find the murderer."

"I could help you with t-" Sherlock started. He knew he had to go home, but it could wait.

"No. It's my turn now," Lestrade said, "anyway, you should be getting home." Damn, how much did he hear? Sherlock didn't answer and found something very interesting to look at on his shoe, "With a little luck, next time you see me I'll be at least a Detective Sergeant."

"Next time you see me I'll be taller than you."

"Good luck with that," the detective said with a smirk, "Thank you very much, John Watson." He held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.

"Truly a pleasure, Greg Lestrade."

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><p>Did you like it?<p>

To be honest, I'm not sure how much I like this story. Oh well, I usually don't like the stuff I write.

The epilogue is pretty much finished and I'll upload it really soon. I think it really adds to the ending, so if you feel like this chapter cuts off too abruptly then it might help =)

**Please** review.


	10. Epilogue

There! It's finally done! Writing this has been an interesting experience. I've never had to write a multi-chapter story with deadlines before, and I've learned quite a lot.

Please remember to review after you read! Even if you've never reviewed before, I'd love to hear from you!

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><p><strong><span>Epilogue<span>**

When Sherlock returned he received a bone-crushing hug from his mother and a lot of silence from his father. He didn't care.

Life returned to its normal monotony very quickly, and Sherlock found himself even more bored than he was before he ran away. He finally knew what being alive felt like, and everything else greyed in comparison, so it was hard for him to find small thefts exciting anymore.

The first mildly interesting thing that happened was a few weeks later at Christmas, when Sherlock returned from a walk outside to see Mycroft sitting in his favourite sofa reading a newspaper. He hadn't seen him in person since breaking into his room. His brother looked up and smiled.

"Ah, Sherlock. Happy Christmas," Mycroft threw the newspaper to his brother, who caught it in one hand. The photo on the front page featured someone very familiar. The headline read:

"DS Gregory Lestrade, Rising Star of Scotland Yard, Breaks Smuggling Ring!"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he quickly read the article. Apparently, Lestrade managed to find a connection between the victim in the supermarket and a jewellery-smuggling ring operating in London. By tracking down the murderer he brought the whole operation to light, resulting in the arrest of at least ten of the people in charge.

"Not bad," Sherlock muttered, feeling quite proud of himself. He was right!

"Indeed. I hope you realize how lucky you were."

"Lucky?" Sherlock asked.

"Your observation of the bruised finger was quite impressive," Mycroft started. He knew what happened at the supermarket. Sherlock told him the whole story weeks ago, "But I could easily think of thirty-seven… No," Mycroft stopped to think, "Thirty-eight different explanations for the situation as you saw it. You were simply lucky enough to choose the right one." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again. Mycroft was right, and the worst part of it all was that he definitely couldn't think of thirty-eight different explanations for the situation as he saw it. He could hardly get fourteen.

"Fine. Whatever," Sherlock mumbled and turned to leave. He already felt bad about not seeing everything at the crime scene; he didn't need Mycroft to make him feel worse.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said and Sherlock stopped, "Do you want to be a detective?" Sherlock thought about it. If being a detective meant having a lot of cases like the one in the supermarket, he didn't even have to contemplate his answer.

"Yes."

"Then you have to work on it. I don't need to tell you you're a natural, but talent doesn't matter if you don't practice. If you really want to be good, you need to be focused."

"I know," Sherlock replied. He looked at Mycroft. Why was he giving him the lecture now? He knew that when it came to deductive reasoning, his brother was pretty much in a league of his own. He did he get this good? Did he practice, or was his natural talent so great that he didn't have to?

"Oh," Mycroft suddenly spoke again, breaking Sherlock's train of thought, "I won't be here on your birthday, so I got you your present now." Mycroft pulled a small leather case from his bag, "This one even comes with instructions, so you won't scratch the locks beyond recognition before opening them," Sherlock took the new leather case from Mycroft and looked inside. It was a lock picking kit that looked almost exactly like the last one, only new and of higher quality. The boy immediately found himself wondering what else he could find in his locked shed if he really searched through it. Perhaps there were more drawers in the house that he didn't find before. A list of every locked door he had seen in the past week flashed through his mind. Then he remembered that he really shouldn't be thinking about it. He didn't want to find anything distracting. He had a purpose and he was not going to waste time on irrelevant information. Then again, he was so curious...

"You said that you regretted throwing the last one in the river. It might help with the boredom a little," Mycroft gave him the most condescending smirk Sherlock had ever seen. He realised that this was a test. Mycroft was testing him to see if he could resist temptation and only use the kit when necessary. His brother had always been an expert on giving him very challenging tests.

"Mycroft, you insufferable git."

"You're very welcome."

_THE END._

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><p>Well, (for the last time), did you like it?<p>

BTW, in case you don't know, Sherlock's birthday is on the 6th of January.

I would love to hear honest your honest opinion on the story, even if you've never commented before (I mean it, please review! I don't bite!)


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